


Heartbreak Drives a Big Black Car

by FallingOnBrokenWings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Fluff, Love Spell, M/M, Pining, Shameless Brother Loving, Wincest - Freeform, curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:29:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingOnBrokenWings/pseuds/FallingOnBrokenWings
Summary: The great thing about curses is that they always find a way to come full circle.





	Heartbreak Drives a Big Black Car

It really wasn’t Dean’s fault this time. He knows that usually when it’s a bar and something bad happens, the first person Sam looks to is Dean. Usually, Dean is already looking back, eyes wide open in a clear _oh shit Sam help me out here_ panic.

But this time, Dean can say with absolutely no guilt in his stomach,

“I swear, I didn’t do that.”

Sam glares back at him, water dripping off the tip of his pointy nose. What was a nice grey t-shirt when they left the motel is darkened almost to black.

“Coward!” the girl sneers, malice directed straight at Sam.

“We’re leaving.” He says, not even checking to see if Dean is following, and storms out of Duffy’s.

 

***

 

“So,” Sam starts as soon as they get back into the motel, but in that tone of voice that only vice principals and overworked mother’s can perfect. The one that says _go ahead and tell me but I already know you’re lying_. “Why exactly was that girl mad at me, Dean?”

“Well, she may have been coming on a little too strong and I guess I just wasn’t feeling it anymore you know?”

Sam’s eyebrow creeps up his forehead, indicating, perhaps, that he doesn’t know. “Mhmm”

“So I might have told her that I was getting over a recent breakup and not ready to get back into it yet, but it wasn’t enough for her! She wanted to know why we couldn’t just hook up.”

At this Sam lets the other eyebrow match the first. “But you’re always down for a hookup,” he asks skeptically.

“I don’t know, man! She was just giving me weird vibes okay! So I told her that I was actually gay but that you weren’t ready to settle down with me yet. We use that excuse all the time. Said you weren’t the relationship type, and that rest is, well,” Dean gestures to Sam’s shirt front, darkened with what smells like vodka cranberry. Real sticky stuff. Doesn’t know why Sam hasn’t gotten out of it yet.

“Oh so now _I’m_ the emotionally unavailable horn dog who can’t settle” Sam asks.

“Yeah sounds about right.”

Sam just stares at him incredulously, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dean stares back just as expectantly.

Sam finally just lets out a sigh, and peels off the offending article and tosses it in the bin on his way to the bathroom. “You’re hopeless.”

***

  
Dean’s lazing on the bed, beer in hand, when Sam finally emerges from the shower. He’s changed into a soft black t-shirt, stuck in ebony spots to his still damp skin, and old sweats pilling at the knees.

“Took you long enough man.” Dean says on route, less edging for a fight and more just something to fill the silence.

Sam doesn’t have much to say, as typical, but does stalk towards Dean with a single minded purpose, which is not so typical.

“Dude, what-” but doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence before Sam is close enough that Dean’s vision blurs into muted earth tones. Sam’s nose nudges against his gently, before he’s gone even faster than he appeared. Dean’s fingers suddenly feel numb and put up no fight when Sam pulls the bottle from them to take a long drag.

“Thanks man,” Sam says, like he hasn’t just casually shook Dean’s little snow globe world, leaving him disoriented and faintly nauseous. He finishes the beer with one more long pull, drops the bottle in the trash bin, and stumbles into bed.

Dean follows in silence about 15 minutes later after finding that the late night SNL wasn’t any better at explaining what just happened than he was.

 

***

 

The weird shit only gets weirder the next morning.

They’re sitting at the diner across from the motel, patiently waiting for the check as Dean scrapes his tines through the last remaining pools of bacon as Sam splits his attention between stacking the tiny maple syrup containers and nudging Dean’s shins.

“Stop it, Sam”

“Nope.” Sam’s mouth pops on the p, juvenile and infuriating.

“I’m not above walking outta here and leaving you with the check. And considering your wallet was on the table when we left, I doubt you’re gonna like that.”

Sam hums noncommittally, and continues to let his boot tap an unknown rhythm on the top of Dean’s.

The non-answer is annoying beyond belief.

“I’ll seriously do it Sam, quit it.”

Sam locks eyes with him over the sticky formica, shit-eating grin in place and brows lowered in challenge.

“...Nope.”

Dean takes the chance to stomp his unoccupied steel-toed boot down on the top of Sam’s foot, hard. A manly squeak escapes his lips, and a hand twitches enough to let his Great Tower of Maple come tumbling down.

“You’re so mean to me,” Sam whines, absently balling a napkin and collecting his syrups.

“Well then stop making me mad,” Dean answers cheerily.

“Don’t you love me anymore, brother,” Sam laments, theatrically sighing to emphasize what Dean assumes is his inner Shakespearean turmoil. And then for good measure, leans across the table to place his massive paw over Dean’s. What a damn thespian.

“Never have, never will” Dean shoots back, feeling quite the opposite. It’s been a while since they’ve been able to just fool around like this. Sam is rarely one to let down his cynical smartass persona to just mess around. Dean feels like the grinch, heart growing a couple sizes to fill this dingy old Bible-belt diner.

Might be why it takes him a few seconds to realize that Sam has yet to take his hand back. His palm lays warm on the mountains of Dean’s knuckles, thumb starting to trail across the skin. A soft smile is spreading over his brother’s face while his eyes are trained on where their fingers meet.

“You’re a damn liar,” Sam says, affection leaking from every word. They’re accompanied by another swipt sweep of a thumb over Dean’s racing pulse.

A gentle chill of concern creeps under Dean’s skin. Just like before a ghost appears in an empty field, or when Dean wakes up and doesn’t immediately see Sam in the bed across from him. “Sam,” he cautions. No reason to spook his brother over nothing. “I think there’s something wrong with you.”

“No, I think there’s something wrong with _you_ ,” Sam flirtatiously mimics, sending a smirk across the table like he’s letting Dean in on an inside joke. It’s not quite funny anymore.

“Seriously dude.” He protests, making a slight effort to pull his hand back into his lap, but Sam’s fingers tighten around it and prevent him from escaping.

“Seriously dude.” Sam copies, megawatt smile trained directly into Dean’s face.

“You guys are cute,” the waitress interjects. Her comment is followed by the check placed in front of Sam, accented by a bright pink pen with a daisy taped to the top.

And that’s just it. Not only is she insinuating that him and his brother are dating, but also that Sam is the boss of it all. He’s not usually one to care about the whole “who’s the spoon and who’s the fork” when the answer is that they’re clearly both knives but as the cherry on top of the already shit-day sundae, Dean is about to lose his temper.

“Thank you!”  
“Brothers.”

They both speak at the same time, but there’s no competition between the saccharine sweet tone of Sam’s gratitude and the icy growl of Dean’s denial. This time his hand is pulled back hard enough to squeak against the table and leave Sam’s falling down into its absence with a soft thump.

The waitress looks sufficiently startled, and scuttles away without any more commentary.

Then he has to watch as disappointment and hurt flicker across Sam’s face, before what looks like a film settles over his eyes momentarily. When it clears, Sam’s hurt has been replaced with confusion.

“Dean, you ready to head back yet?” he asks, like he’s not sure if he’s asked that exact question already. It’s extremely disconcerting and turns the chill in Dean’s stomach into a block of ice.

“...Yeah Sammy, let’s go back.”

Sam doesn’t even kick up a fuss about the nickname, just glances around the diner like it’s his first time seeing the place. Stares at the little collection of maples syrups in their napkin abode and scrunches his nose up in perplexity.

So definitely some kind of curse then. How wonderful.

 

***

 

Sam spends the entire drive home trying to not-so-subtly put his hand on Dean’s knee.

Dean spends the entire drive home fighting off Sam’s wandering hands in extreme discomfort.

 

***

 

Ushering Sam into the motel room, Dean starts running through some curses in his head that could be causing this extreme change in his brother.

Sirens and succubi are out of the question since Dean’s been with him all day every day for the last week and they haven’t come in contact with anyone odd other than the girl at the bar. He’s pretty sure this has something to do with her but it’s always safest to cover all their bases.

“Hey, Sammy,” he gestures at his brother, whose dumb ass is standing in the middle of the room looking particularly lost. “Get over here real quick.”

Sam sighs but wanders over. “I just don’t understand what we’re still doing in town, Dean. There’s for sure a haunting in Tennessee that’s not getting any less haunted the longer we stay here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses. They’ve got bigger issues at hand. “Stick your arm out.”

Sam obeys without any question. Until Dean pulls out a silver knife and makes a quick nick in the meat of his forearm.

“Ow dude! What the fuck is your problem? It’s me,” Sam pulls his arm back to his body, eyes genuinely confused.

“I think that girl at the bar hit you with something,” he starts. “You’ve been acting seriously weird all day.”

“Weird how?” Sam asks. “I literally haven’t been doing anything. We went to bed and then grabbed breakfast, that hasn’t even given me time to leave your sight.”

He feels the back of his neck start heating up with the fact that he’s gonna have to explain exactly how weird his brother’s been acting. It’s not like they haven’t been close their whole lives, it’s true. But how is he going to explain to him that Sam’s starting crossing over the line that they both seemed perfectly happy keeping in place, indefinitely, for the rest of their lives, until one of them died.

“You’ve just been like, super touchy dude,” Dean starts, sitting down on the bed closest to him. “And like this morning you held my hand and breakfast, but when you stopped it was like you were hit with amnesia. Same in the car, you kept trying to touch me. You’re telling me you don’t remember any of that?”

Sam goes a little pale and shakes his head fervently. “Not at all.”

It’s a little disconcerting seeing Sam so at odds with himself, usually so self-confident and sure of his own actions. Something in his chest pulls to go comfort his brother, but instead he buries his head in his hands.

With shapeshifter out of the equation, some kind of curse of spell is the most likely cause of whatever has Sam so out of whack. Unfortunately, trying to track down that witch in this town is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack. Fortunately though, love spells, and he cringes to even think about the words, are ridiculously hard to cast and usually can’t last longer than a few days. The power required to create an artificial emotion in a victim is massive so very few witches can even successfully cast one without blood magic. They probably won’t even need to track her down, Dean can just lock them in the motel with a couple of movies and wait for the spell to burn itself out.

The bed next to him dips with Sam’s weight, dragging Dean’s center of gravity slightly towards him. It always feels like that when Sam’s close enough to touch. Dean’s been fighting it his entire life, but for the first time since Dad yelled at them for sharing a bed he’s having a really hard time not letting his body just slide into the pull.

“Hey,” Sam says gently. “I don’t know what’s going on in that gorgeous head of yours, but we’ll figure it out. Together. We always do.”

Before Dean can even think up an appropriate way to react to that, one of Sam’s massive hands falls onto his thigh. It’s so big that the thumb and pinky straddle the seams of his jeans, and the gentle squeeze Sam puts on his quad has his blood pounding. They don’t touch like this, not since Sam came back from Stanford, and Dean has no idea how to handle it.

“I’m going to the library!” Dean loudly announces to the room at large, and throws himself off the mattress.

“Oh I’ll come with” Sam says enthusiastically.

“Nope, you stay here and,” Dean pauses to throw his leather jacket on and stuff the keys deep into his pocket. “Watch the room. I need some air.”

Sam makes a noise of disappointment somewhere behind Dean, but by the time the guilt hits him he’s already out the door and halfway across the parking lot.

He doesn’t get how she managed to cast such a complex curse that Sam can fool himself into thinking that he’s in love with his brother, but Dean really doesn’t care anymore. He just needs to put some space between him and Sam before he does something stupid.

 

***

 

It’s been a couple of hours, easily, and the words are starting to swim off of the page instead of through his head. Every single one of the books on ‘love spells’ either indicate that it’s impossible to make someone fall in love with another, like it’s against the rules or something, or that it takes a special type of dark magic performed under a full moon. Considering that the next full moon isn’t for another two weeks, Dean’s managed to rule that one out, but all of this talk about eternal love and absolute devotion are seriously giving him indigestion.

It’s like being in a YA novel with the way half of the sources claim that true love is the the most powerful magic of them all. They’ve obviously never been face to face with a shritga. Putting aside respective accuracy of magical beings, at least it’s been able to largely take his mind off of his Prince Charming he left in the room.

He’s just starting a new article about how to keep oneself from being amorously cursed you need only drink water from a stream filled with freshly plucked lily petals during the witching hour when he hears Sam come in.

Dean can’t make out what he says, but looking up he can see that he’s leaning against the reception desk speaking lowly with the young intern. She giggles and points in his direction and Dean’s quick to snap his eyes back down to the books in front of him.

Sam’s feet metronome closer until Dean can’t pretend that he hasn’t seen him for any longer.

“Hey handsome,” Sam says, obviously freshly showered and changed.

“How did you find me,” he asks stupidly.

“Well, one, you told me you were going to the library before you stormed out and, two, there’s really no where else for you to go in this town since all the strip joints are closed for at least a couple more hours.” Sam accents his entrance with a heavy bag tossed Dean’s way. He only barely manages to catch it before the grease on the bottom of the bag is able to transfer onto the book in front of him.

Realizing what he just did, acting like a total nerd and caring about the well being of a public library book, Dean places it back down on the center of the novel in rebellion.

“Ha ha, very funny Sam. Like you would ever catch me there, no guy worth his dime goes to a strip club before 5,” he says absently as he rips open the bag.

Inside there’s a large order of fries, extra salt visible, and what appears to be a burger wrapped in red and silver foil. X ONION is written on it in sloppy sharpie and circled. It smells amazing and already the lady at the front desk must be giving him a dirty look for the aroma of fried oil and meat that must be filling the small building.

“Didn’t eat a lot at breakfast,” Sam offers as explanation. “Thought you could use some brain food.”

Dean’s genuinely touched by the gesture. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam shrugs nonchalant and pulls out the wooden chair across from him. He does a little hop-shuffle to pull it all the way in to the table and leans back until he seem to find a comfortable position. There’s not one. Dean’s been trying since he came in.

Sam’s booted heel suddenly thumps down dangerously close to Dean’s junk, but he’s not paying attention to Dean’s incredulous look as he’s already nose deep in something in his phone. Basically doing the opposite of helping finding a cure for this thing by both distracting Dean and providing no input of his own.

“Do you mind?” Dean finally asks.

Sam spares him a sly glance over the top of his phone before flicking his eyes back down to Candy Crush or whatever stupid game he’s into this month. “Not at all.”

Sam’s tongue starts peeking out of the side of his mouth as he clearly loses himself in focus, eyes glittering beneath dark eyelashes, and Dean’s heart trembles on the edge of something they’ve never put a name on, razor thin, before falling back. He lets Sam keep his foot in his lap, drops a hand down to trace protection runes over what he can reach of Sam’s ankles, and munches through his fries with the other. The solid heat of Sam’s skin keeps him grounded until they decide to head back to the motel, none the wiser on how to fix the curse.

 

***

  
“Hey babe.”

Dean flinches slightly as Sam walks into the room.

It’s been two whole days of this but he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to those words falling casually from Sam’s lips. Which, it’s not like he needs to get used to it, since, from what the internet and Dad’s journal are telling him, this thing is only going to last a couple more days t the most and then everything can finally go back to normal.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs back, deliberately keeping his shoulder blades pointed in the direction of his brother’s voice, shuffling through some papers looking for something interesting to busy his hands.

Which is probably why he jumps out of his skin when Sam’s hands descend onto his shoulders out of nowhere. Through the thin cotton shirt, Dean can feel the catch of calluses on the fine threads, four hard points of contact against the soft warmth of the palm.

“Mhmm,” Sam hums lazily right next to Dean’s ear. “What you been up to while I was out?”

The question is followed with a gentle kiss to the temple, one that Dean is almost afraid to admit that he leans into. The hand on his shoulders flex and relax softly, like a kneading cat. Something about the domesticity of the gesture builds a mellow heat deep in his chest, and he fights a strong urge to knuckle at his sternum to make it go away.

“Not, uh, not much really.” His hands shuffle, restless, on the table. He’d closed the _how to stop incestuous thoughts_ google tab the second he heard Sam’s key in the door, so he really has no reason to be sitting in front of Sam’s computer like this unless he was surfing for porn. He grabs the nearest paper and quickly scans the title. “Looking into some suspicious ranger reports not too far from here, might be a squonk.”

“Haven’t seen one of those in a while,” Sam muses, sounding half-interested at best.

The rest of his brain power seems directed at trying to cook Dean’s cheeks from the inside-out as he breathes out against the little hairs on the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes back, not even sure what they’re talking bout anymore.

They suddenly stand up in warning, and Dean barely has any time to brace himself before Sam’s lips make sudden contact with the meat of his neck. Hunter’s instincts tell him to jerk away, save the jugular, but something in his body recognizes Sammy. Recognizes no threat.

There’s no scrape of teeth like Dean expected, just a longer, wetter kiss than before, and then Sam’s presence disappears. His boots thump gently as he toes them off before wandering into the bathroom. An old habit that pissed Dad off so Sam never grew out of it. The door closes with a soft snick and Dean can suddenly breathe again. The motel air conditioning kicks into gear and freezes the damp spot left on his neck.

He doesn’t really like how no matter what Sam does, he always seems to have the final word. Even if he doesn’t say a thing.

 

***

 

“You look good.”

“What?” Dean spins around to stare at Sam, who is also changing into his one good fed suit. They’d found a minor poltergeist a town over in amongst all of the studying Dean’s been doing at the library, the only good thing to come out of all of his time in the stacks. A lone sock hangs from Sam’s hand, and Dean can’t help the little rush of affection he feels for his dopey little brother. Even if his biceps look like they're going to bulge out of the cheap white shirt he’s only gotten half-buttoned.

“I’m just saying,” Sam lets his eyes trace down to the floor and back up to his Dean’s face, making absolutely no effort to hide the heat behind the gaze. “You look really fucking good in that suit.”

For all that women, and even some men, give Dean what he romantically refers to as _im getting laid tonight_ eyes, having it come from Sam throws him off. Seeing molten lust in eyes where usually there’s only gentle understanding or fond annoyance makes something in his stomach twist. His mind and body seem to disconnect, unable to draw a comparison between baby brother Sammy and this lust filled imitation.

His dick, however, seems perfectly happy to lose the shackles of his mind for a second and revert to it’s lizard-brain ways. Imagining what usually happens when someone gives him those eyes at a bar. It twitches. Hard.

He spins away, fumbling with the tie around his neck. “Jesus Christ Sam, shut the fuck up. It’s the same suit I always wear.”

“Babe, come here.”

Dean hates how soothing Sam’s voice is, despite the endearing nickname. It’s the same one he uses to get widows and little old ladies to cry all over a dainty white handkerchief. Probably the same one he used with Jess when they fought. Just on principle, Dean resolves to walk even further away from Sam and keep tying his knot, fingers fumbling angry and clumsy on the silk material.

At the approach of Sam’s footsteps, his motions become frantic. Something prickles at the back of his throat, heavy and overwhelming to swallow.

Sam’s strong arms circle him, gently tugging his fingers off the tie. Smoothing the material down his chest, Sam’s graceful fingers confidently throw end over end and loop the tie into a strong knot, tightening it to just where Dean would usually wear it.

“Dean?”

At the lack of response, his brother tries again.

“Dean, just look up will ya? For me?”

And God help him, he can never say no to Sam.

When he looks up, he’s shocked to see himself staring back. He hadn’t noticed that he’d stormed off in the direction of the living area, where a full-length mirror lay a little off-kilter on the wall.

Dean was usually pretty confident in his physical prowess, but looking at how Sam’s shoulders and height dwarfed his own, he couldn’t help but feel infinitely small. The part of his brain that had always told him to look out for Sammy shivered a little bit, imagining how Sam didn’t need any looking out for anymore. Imagining how other people must look at his brother and see a powerful machine instead a snot-nosed kid asking for just one more hour of TV. While he struggled to push those thoughts down, Sam’s left arm descended across his chest and settled heavy around Dean’s waist, essentially pulling him in tight to the heat against his back.

“You’re so gorgeous. Why won’t you let me tell you that?”

Sam lets out heavy sigh, fingertips trailing over Dean’s collarbone. Goosebumps erupt across Dean’s skin, but in the mirror he thinks he just looked a little constipated.

Poor Sam, he seems genuinely sad, puppy dog eyes reflected watery and wide in the silver glass. Dean isn’t sure if he had the heart to keep rejecting his own brother just for some stupid curse. Isn’t prepared for the emotional fallout every time.

Not knowing what to say, he just lets his eyes fall to the floor. They stand that way in silence for a couple seconds before Sam lets his arms fall back to his side, and retreats back to where his suit is laid out on the bed. His absence is filled with a hot flush of shame up Dean’s spine.

They finish changing in silence. He knows that Sam is going to gradually forget this whole encounter before it even hits noon, but still, Dean wasn’t sure why he feels so guilty. He’s gotta start nipping this in the bud sooner, or let Sam get away with everything. This middle ground is beginning to suffocate.

 

***

 

They’ve finished the poltergeist, easy as cake, and since they were both still on an adrenaline high after dinner they decided to walk across downtown. Dean's taking the opportunity to people-watch. Or, rather, watch-people-watching-Sam watching 

He notes how women watch Sam. Documents how their eyes jump from piece to piece, like they can’t decide which part of him they want a bite of first. Drawn to his places of power: a strong jaw, ripped forearms, massive hands. Something makes Dean want to throw himself in front of their gaze, protect his little brother’s modesty from these women who only want one thing from him.

The longer they walk, the more frustrated he’s growing. It’s hot, sweat is crawling in drops down the dip of his spine, and Dean’s jeans are chafing a little bit. All he wants to do is just sit with Sam in an air-conditioned room and talk about absolutely nothing.

Suddenly a hand is slipping into his, interlocking fingers slotting into place. It’s so high-school-first-date-nervous that Dean can’t help but smile a little. Smart little Sammy.

“You’re all mine. They can’t have you.” Sam whispers. Like it was secret, just for them.

And maybe it is. Maybe if they say it too loudly, everyone will know what they are to each other. What this means. That the blood running under their shared wrists is one and the same. But the possessive undercurrent of those words won’t stop ringing in his ears, and somewhere in his mind the radio static insecurities that Sam’s four year absence left behind are quieted. It’s blissfully silent, Dean’s thoughts empty but vacantly happy.

That Sam might have left him, but this Sam wants him. And for now, that’s all he needs.

“Shut up,” he says, but doesn’t pull his hand away since it’s kinda cold outside, and feels a blush spread under his skin. Only Sam could make the incest _sweet._

 

***

 

“Hey babe”

“Stop calling me that, Sam. I swear to God.”

After their embarrassing high school date in the park, Dean’s made a promise to himself to be quicker in shutting down these little moments. For both his pride and his eventual humility. They’ll only make it harder when the curse wears off to get everything back to normal. Because, god help him, Dean is starting to forget what normal feels like.

Sam walks over, long legs eating up ground. They look good in those jeans, Dean thinks absently, watching the way the fabric strains over Sam’s powerful quads but end up shamefully loose around his trim waist. Guilty, Dean snaps his eyes back down to the book.

Unfortunately, Sam plops himself down on the table, sits close enough to Dean that heat leeches into his forearm from where it brushes up against Sam’s jeans. Dean’s brother practically invented the art of how to be just annoying enough to grate on his nerves at the worst possible times.

“Would you prefer baby?”

“No.” Dean says, not even looking up from his book. Point Dean.

“How about angel cake?”

“I’m not a dessert.“

“Honey bun?”

Dean looks up with a strained smile. “Still not a dessert.”

Sam’s beaming back at him, figurative hearts in his eyes. He seems ecstatic to have somehow caught Dean’s attention, even for just a moment. It’s extremely distracting. Dean looks back down to the book.

And then Sam pokes him.

“Quit it Sam, I’m trying to research.”

“Not trying too hard there, muffin.” Sam says, smug as a pig in shit. “The book’s upside down.”

Well color him stupid. It really is. Cuneiform was never his strength anyway. He closes the pretty useless novel and puts it on the nightstand.

“Maybe it’s supposed to be read upside down,” Dean grumbles, already knowing he’s lost. “And stop trying to seduce me with the names of foods. How about just stop trying to seduce me in general.”

He’s answered with another poke to the right rib cage. This one is less provocative and more ticklish. Sam knows better than to start something he can’t finish.

“Sure thing, snugglekins.”

And that’s the last straw. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.” Dean says amicably, and immediately throws himself at Sam, hands aimed to attack. His fingers dig deep into one of Sam’s armpits and it’s bets off for who can fight the dirtiest.

Sam’s fighting seems a little bit more flirtatious, taking sneaky nips at Dean’s neck when he’s got him pinned. Palms tucked tight around Dean’s hips where they can flip him over and get an upper hand. Dean’s doing his best to ignore it and go for kill shots. Knees to groin. Wet fingers into ears. Absolutely nothing sexual about threatening to hack a loogie on his brother’s forehead.

Sam’s finally learned to use his height to his advantage, and the sheer mass of him makes him a tough opponent.

Despite it, Dean has been play fighting with Sam since they both could fit in the footwells of the Impala and Dean’s never been one to lose. Each of Sam’s moves have slight tells, and Dean’s using them to his advantage where he can. But goddamn that boy has some legs. And when Sam’s losing he has a really bad habit of just flailing them around like some kinda rogue pair of hoses. It only takes one heel to Dean’s stomach for this to really piss him off.

“I’m gonna stab you I swear to- oof,” Dean starts, just as Sam rolls him into a pretty secure headlock.

“You promise, sweetheart?” Sam whispers right in his ear, arms wrapped tight around Dean’s ribs, pelvis snug against the curve of his ass.

Just like that the mood changes. Dean can feel tension charging in the air, ready to snap.

The suggestion in Sam’s voice is blatant, as if the way his hands are sliding down his torso weren’t enough. That’s how Dean’s so sure that Sam must feel the way his breath hitches hard in his chest for the way that word rolls off his tongue.

It’s Dean’s word. The one he whispers to girls in the dark when he’s buried in tight, wet, heat. Legs held captive over his shoulders, and fingers intertwined in long dark locks. When he’s got 140 lbs of barely-legal twink bouncing on his dick, words lost in the damp sounds of flesh on flesh, and he wants them to feel _special._

Sam knows that. Has walked in on Dean _en media res_ enough times, heard big brother bragging stories at bars to know the absolute trademark Dean has on that term.

It’s an absolutely filthy word, but damn does Dean want to hear Sam say it again. Wants Sam to give that word back to him, release whatever weird possession it has on Dean’s heart.

A quick flash of memory, a lithe little blonde Dean picked up at a club a few months ago. So eager to please. So ready to fall down on his knees and do whatever Dean asked him to. And suddenly, it’s him on his knees. Him looking up into Sam’s fox eyes and wanting to be special. Wanting to be called _sweetheart_ and have it mean something.

Dean breaks from Sam’s grip suddenly. His blood pounding a tribal beat in his ears, loud enough to drown out whatever questioning noises Sam’s making behind him. His dick is as hard as he can remember it ever being without actively fucking something.

“Uncle. Gotta piss,” he says. Or he hopes he does, he can’t really hear over the rush in between his eyes, and the way his breaths are coming out in desperate pants.

He hears Sam say something but he’s already slammed the bathroom door before he can think about what it could be. He’s not sure he’ll be able to watch the film of absence slip over Sam’s eyes as he forgets everything about what they just did, yet again. It’s almost easier for Sam than it is for him because Sam doesn’t have to live with the feelings he keeps shoving into Dean. Just gets to come into Dean’s heart, wrench it around, and walk away without seeing the way that it’s leaving him absolutely wrecked.

Dean doesn’t come out for quite a while, and when he does, Sam has already forgotten and is asleep in his bed.

 

***

 

And then suddenly, with no warning, the moments end.

Sam stops waking Dean up with coffee wet-kisses on the cheek followed by his own steaming mug on the dresser. Starts going back to stinging slaps to the stomach with a reminder to pick up breakfast.

He stops brushing up behind Dean in the bathroom with a sneaky hand on his hip to reach the toothpaste, only to chase him out with foaming lips moments later. Stops even coming into the bathroom with him, instead wait his turn like they’ve always done, respecting the modicum of privacy the single room always provides.

Stops gently nudging his foot at diners, catching an ankles between strong calves when Dean’s thoughts begin to wander too far into places they shouldn’t be. Stops pelting him with sugar packets and the ends of straws, instead too busy talking about cases and destinations to notice Dean’s ankles growing cold on the opposite end of the floor.

And Dean’s starting to realize that it was in those moments that he felt the strongest connections to his brother. Casual affection that masculinity has forced them to abandon in exchange for sparse manly shoulder slaps and even fewer words. Sam’s smiles genuine and laughs louder than he’s heard in years.

They leave town and Sam doesn’t even reach across the car to hold his hand once. He does ask Dean if he’s been sneaking whiskey into his coffee after he notices Dean’s hands twitching nervously on the wheel, and Dean turns up Zeppelin in response.

On top of it all, he starts seeing couple shit everywhere. Magazine’s decorating the windows of gas stations proclaiming how to fix YOUR MAN NOT PAYING YOU ENOUGH ATTENTION. He feels like a jaded wife, and he knows he’s taking it out on Sam by snapping and being generally icy, but the whole world seems geared to remind Dean that he’s an idiot that fell back in love with his brother after he thought every single one of his hopes had already been crushed.

Sam starts leaving him alone in the motel, good little brother that he is, to let Dean work though his moods the way he always has. With crappy daytime tv and shit ton of liquor. Unfortunately, Jerry Springer reruns seem to be on half the channels the crappy motel TV's get, and cheesy seasonal romcoms on the rest. It’s that time of year where Christmas is fast approaching and everyone is moving towards it in duets while Dean is feeling like the mayor of Lonely Town, and not even a bottle of Jack can warm his heart enough to pull him out of his funk.

The worst part is, Sam has no idea. The curse left him with sparse memories of the past week, nothing beyond a faint understanding that he had a cold and slept through most of it.

It should be a gift, an early Christmas present even, that Sam doesn’t remember the embarrassing events, but it’s making Dean’s stomach turn. Hasn’t enough been taken from Sam? Now not even his own memories, his own happiness is safe?

Because it’s true. In those moments when Dean had let his guard down and let Sam unabashedly dote on him were the happiest he’s seen his brother in a long time. The happiest Dean’s been in a while too if he’s gonna be honest. It was nice to have all the comfort he’s usually had with his brother, just adding the emotional intimacy Dean has always craved and looked for in other people. And then, without warning, it had been snatched back from him yet again.

“Hey, Dean. Dean!”

Sam’s voice cuts through the fog, dragging him back to the crowded bar they’re squatting in. Dean’s beer has gone lukewarm, sitting happily in a large pool of condensation in front of him.

“Huh, yeah?” he answers, unsure if this is the first time Sam has tried to get his attention.

Sam rolls his eyes like it’s definitely not but gestures across the bar towards the dart board. “Isn’t that the girl from the last town? The one who didn’t like that you were pining away for me instead of getting into her skirt?”

The irony of that statement now isn’t lost on him, but he lets the dull ache in his heart to slip to the back of his mind in order to squint across the room. And yeah, Sam’s right, it definitely is the girl who threw her drink on his brother. Tight black cocktail dress highlighting a hourglass figure, chestnut hair flowing down her back. Her hand is curled around what is probably another cranberry vodka and she’s leaning back against the bar staring straight at him.

Dean barely even hears Sam’s “Dean! Dean, man, she’s not worth it” protests as he gets up from the table, cutting through the semi-crowded floor to get in front of her.

“What the hell did you do to him,” he growls as he approaches.

She swirls her drink around daintily, and leans a little bit closer with a glint in her eyes. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit, and I’m not above stabbing in you this piece of shit bar to prove it.” His hand creeps towards his waist, but she drops a hand onto his forearms with surprising strength to hold it. Blood red acrylics dig in just enough to warn Dean that he probably shouldn’t go for it again.

“You’re not above a lot of things, Dean Winchester,” she purrs. Dean, for the life of him, can’t remember what he found attractive about her, because now every point of contact they share feels like oil. “Even incest it seems.”

Dean instinctively shushes her, glancing around the bar to see if anyone heard and is gearing up to kick them out. “Will you shut the fuck up. It’s not like that.”

“That’s what they all say when I give them what they want.”

“Wait, when you what?”

She gives a mirthless laugh and takes the hand off of his forearm to lean back against the bar top. She takes a long pull of her drink and puts the empty cup down. “You assume I did something to your brother. The truth is, the curse was only ever on you. Of course, I prefer to call it a blessing. I turned you into a magnifier, an amplifier of truth.”

Dean is momentarily speechless, unsure where this conversation is headed. He had been so sure she had placed something on Sam. “I don't understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” She answers, blood nails tapping on the stained wood.

Next to her hand the air shimmers, like a rock tossed into a still lake, and her plastic cup dances with it. In its place, a massive hollow stag horn materializes, still rippling as if unsure of its place in the room. The more he looks at it, the less concrete it appears, until it almost hurts his eyes to keep staring and averts them. Out of his periphery he can’t even tell that it’s still there, and no matter how he tries he can’t force himself to look directly where it would sit again. Must be part of the glimmer surrounding the object, but even thinking about it sets off a mini migraine just behind his temple.

“What the hell are you,” he grits out.

Something in her eyes is keeping his boots lead-heavy to the ground. His arms aren’t his own, and even his breathing feels strained. He feels like a mouse face-to-face with a snake. Her brown iris melt to fill her whole eyes with swirling copper.

“Let’s just say I’m a Storyteller. And yours, Dean and Sam Winchester, is an absolutely fascinating story.”

“You’re a pagan god?” he asks dumbly.

She smiles, humoring. “Sure, if you wanna put a label on it.”

“And I have a story?”

“Of course,” she continues. “You all do. But yours, and Sam’s, together, are going to be one of the greatest stories ever told. There will be blood, and sacrifice, and death. But, of all the possible endings, it can only end happily when you both recognize the profound _connection_ you share, beyond social and physical boundaries. Your souls sing for each other.”

“So you made Sam fall in love with me,” he asks. Somewhere inside of his chest, a small warmth is growing. Unsure of whether it is being in the presence of what he can determine is an Old God or if it’s the weight she put on the word connection, like it wasn’t quite strong enough for what she was describing.

“No,” she says slowly. “ I made you amplify what already existed within him. I’ve seen mountains move faster than you two, it’s infuriating. What I did just sped you up and forced you to face what you both feel. What you’ve always felt.”

Dean could feel his cheeks heat up but a smile broke through. Both with the insult and with the knowledge that hey, maybe he wasn’t the only one messed up. Their souls sang together apparently, whatever that meant, which probably implied Sam’s soul must feel this pull as strongly as his.

Her humoring smile softened to one of genuine affection. “Stop denying yourself a story, Dean. You may feel that you have not earned your own contentment yet, but have no fear, you will. Let your heart sing, and you will be surprised how his will answer your call.”

And just like that she was gone, her spot filled with an empty air rushing in that for some reason smelt like pine trees. His mind struggling to think what she could be, what her horn could possibly be for, and how she knew so much about him and Sam.

A hand settles onto his shoulder, pulling Dean away from his thoughts.

“You okay?” Sam asks. “You had me worried when you stormed over-”

And suddenly Sam's voice fades into a drone and Dean can’t figure out why he's been wrestling this for so long. The way he and Sam had shared breath when they were younger, to how they couldn’t even sleep now without drifting towards one another on twin motel beds. It was so inevitable, this gravitational pull between them that Dean feels fatigued just thinking about how much truth he had actively chosen not to see. How much symmetry they had been denying themselves.

Sam’s eyes meet his and in them he sees so many years of longing that he had always been too close to name.

“Oh my god, I have so much to tell you. But first,” Dean interrupts, placing both of his hands on Sam’s handsome face and pulled him in for a kiss. It isn’t very good because Sam is kinda mid-question and Dean’s teeth connect because he’s smiling so hard, but he swears he’s never been happier.

When he pulls back, shock is written clear across Sam’s face. Despite it all, Dean can’t wipe the idiotic smile off his face and he must look absolutely enamored with his stupidly confused mess of a brother because Sam’s whole face lifts. His eyes light up with delight and his dimples start carving permanent shadows into his cheeks.

All I Want For Christmas Is You plays softly in the background and Dean can’t stop himself from laughing softly.

Sam looks dazed as to what could possibly be so funny about the whole situation, until Dean points a finger upwards towards the stereo.

“Didn’t even need no damn mistletoe,” he clarifies.

It takes a second, during which Dean can see his brother’s mind working about a million miles an hour before deciding that yeah, this is happening. “No, just fifteen years of repression and a love curse apparently,” Sam says cheekily.

“Worked out fine in my books,” Dean says, but lets his hand fall down to catch Sam’s. It’s nice to be the one initiating it for once.

There’s still an instinctive jump of wrong in his chest, and somewhere in the back of his head is a voice yelling that he’s going to ruin this just like he’s ruined every single one of his relationships. But Sam’s fingers wrap tight around his and the voice fades until all Dean can hear is his own heartbeat and faint Christmas music, with the faint smell of pine in the air. He doesn’t know where his story is going to take him, but it’s nice to know that Sam’s gonna be there for every word of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagined the witch as a sort of Old God in possession of The Horn of Bran Galed, a fabled cup that allowed the drinker to grant wishes and tell truths. Could just be Hozier. Who really knows.


End file.
